


however, in your word

by chronology



Series: we will be legends [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Olympics, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 07:27:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11595792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chronology/pseuds/chronology
Summary: He would’ve been there too, in Los Angeles, if the world were to move for him.





	however, in your word

**Author's Note:**

> For the SASO2017 BR4 [prompt](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/23665.html?thread=13752945#cmt13752945): "It turns out that sometimes the future actually belongs to someone else." - A Softer World: 670.
> 
> Eventually I'll stop having them in some sort of Olympics AU. Someday. Title is from _The Empire of Corpses_ OST, but I mostly listened to [Taylor Swift](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hHN0ca6lf1c) for this.

He wakes up to an empty apartment. The clock tells him it’s eight in the morning.

Oikawa rubs at his eyes, stretches to get the sleep out of his bones. Beside him is a different bed, made and untouched for what seems like days. _Tobio is in Los Angeles_ , he remembers, but it doesn’t take away from the strange feeling of Kageyama not returning to the apartment for dinner and a shower after a long day of training.

He would’ve been there too, in LA, if the world were to move for him. The bills stacked on the kitchen counter, his phone’s calendar, and a company project remind him that not everything is his for the taking anymore, unlike at seventeen, unlike at fifteen. That doesn’t mean he’s given up — the separate bank account will be there in four years with more money. Paris will be better than Los Angeles.

During breakfast, Oikawa forces himself to drink the milk that Kageyama had neglected to finish while staring at Kageyama’s laptop screen. His own desktop is too inconvenient at times like this, when he has to know how Team Japan is doing against the rest of the world.

That is, until the alarm on his clock reminds him of an appointment in an hour. So he changes and leaves out the door, quietly shuts it even though nobody else is in there.

 

There’s a ten minute delay when Oikawa gets to the hospital because the therapist is preoccupied with an earlier patient. He alternates between watching a stream of the men’s volleyball match on his phone and chatting with the receptionists about it while he waits. When they ask him who his favorite player is, he balks—

“Well, I wouldn’t call Kageyama Tobio my _favorite_ exactly…”

The women giggle, and Oikawa has no chance to explain himself before he’s whisked away for his appointment.

Therapy goes as he expects. Maybe it’s the heavy rain from today, but his knee is aching a little more than usual through the exercises. In the examination room, the sound of the Olympics filters in from the reception area. Oikawa checks his phone and there aren’t any new messages.

 

When Team Japan loses, Oikawa is sitting in front of the giant monitor in his room. The stream is muddled a little by changing internet speeds, pixels here and there, but it clears up in time for him to see Kageyama — Japan red contrasting the arena — dive onto the floor and the ball miss him entirely.

 

It’s the afternoon when Oikawa hears his phone ringing.

Checking the screen, he sees that it’s a LINE call from Kageyama, so he swipes the notif to answer it. There’s some background noise on Kageyama’s end, probably the hustle and bustle of players walking around.

“Oikawa-san.”

“Tobio-chan,” Oikawa says. “You don’t usually call.”

Kageyama is silent after that. Oikawa balances the phone between his ear and shoulder as he navigates the apartment, arranging Kageyama’s volleyball magazines on a bookshelf, dropping his own wet clothes off into the washing machine.

“I messed up,” Kageyama suddenly blurts out.

Oikawa can almost feel the expectancy in his voice, and replies, “I saw. And?”

Because he’s seventeen again, at the Interhigh, trying to recall the dull ache of his arm after the ball slammed into it. Because what he _does_ remember is the world not ending with the loss of his volleyball career. Because he won’t ever understand the grandness of the Olympics, but he will always understand Kageyama.

“You have another four years, don’t you?” Oikawa starts. “Don’t tell me you’re going to retire after this. You pay for half the rent, so you need those endorsements.”

It’s quiet, for a moment.

“Yeah,” Kageyama finally says. Even through the static, he sounds like a breath is finally leaving his chest, softer. “Yeah.”


End file.
